Simple Things
by Famirad
Summary: [Republic Commando, post Hard Contact] The clone commandos contemplate the simple things as Omega Squad prepares for their next mission onboard a luxury liner.
1. RC8015 Fi

**Simple Things**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Star Wars or any of the Republic Commando characters.  
**Author's Note**: Wrote this for an RPG application writing sample, it kind of blew up to be bigger than expected, ah ha.  
**Summary**: (Republic Commando, post Hard Contact) The clone commandos contemplates the simple things as Omega Squad prepares for their next mission.

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Simple Things  
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**(RC-8015 "Fi" )**

Fi liked things simple. Unfortunately, things had a habit of refusing to come nice and quiet and _simple_, and that was where it got messy. Messy got clone commando units sent in, and today it was Omega Squad's turn for the fireworks, less than a week after their first mission together; Fi knew for a fact that it would be anything _but_ simple. It never was.

Simple was slotting the bad guys when they stood in nice, neat rows, just sitting there and not shooting back. One, two, three and down. Simple was having reliable intel and being able to get the job done without any hitches, or what their trainer sometimes called "field improv", a fancy, dreaded word for winging it; simple was also something that was completely alien to Omega Squad. Fi sighed to himself. Sometimes he wished he was a normal clone, nice and docile and probably not programmed to be allowed this amount of free thought. At least he wouldn't be thinking this much, to the point where even _he_ wanted himself to _shut up_.

It was always like this before an engagement. Behind all the quips and wisecracks, he felt sick, nervous and upset in the stomach, and he knew for certain it wasn't the ration cubes doing the upsetting.

He was scared.

They all were, behind the soft blue glow of their helmets' T-slits, and that was only slightly comforting. Niner, echoing their trainer Kal Skirata, would probably just remind him that fear was a powerful tool...so long as he didn't let it control him.

A good point, but sitting here on the bench with his brothers – his fellow Omega commandos, with identical faces behind each helmet – Fi was glad that for once Niner wasn't trying his best to project Skirata right now. He was silent, like the others, and for that Fi was thankful. For now he needed what little time he could manage to gather himself and get ready – today he might die or his brothers might die, and clone or not, the idea of dying still scared Fi. He was human enough to be scared of death, perhaps not so much as a non-clone, but the fear was still there.

It was worse to die crippled and uselessly old, Darman said once, but Fi thought that getting gutted or maimed on the battlefield didn't seem to be that much more appealing. Especially since _he_ was supposed to be the team medic, and he'd be a pretty poor one if he was dead, seeing as being dead made it hard for him to do his job, which was essentially to ensure the rest of Omega Squad didn't end up dead as well.

Besides, Fi didn't really relish the idea of gasping away his life on some mud-ball of a planet crawling with droids. It just didn't seem very glorious to him.

But thinking about it, he couldn't come up with any alternatives. To be brutally honest – and he never kidded himself on his own odds of survival – his chances were slim. Slim to nil; slim being on the generous side. Clones were bred for warfare and that ultimately meant they were expendable, even the ARCS and Null-ARCS. One of the cold, hard facts of life drilled into him from as long as he could remember, yet it only scared him at times like these, in the few minutes in a mission where he had altogether too much time to himself to think.

Across from him, Niner was keeping an eye on the chrono display on his helmet's HUD. It wasn't really necessary, but it was something to do and Niner was real big on promptness and being busy – even if being busy simply meant looking busy.

"Go time in five," Niner said.

Atin adjusted the Deece strapped across his chest. "Can't hardly wait."

Fi could. But he had his new squad-brothers to look out for; perhaps he hadn't grown in the same batch as them, but as far as he was concerned, they were _his_ family in the decidedly small world he inhabited. That thought made him straighten his seat, feeling a little better.

"Go time in five," Fi repeated. "Let's crash this little Sep picnic; breaks my heart how they forgot to invite us."

None of them quite knew what a picnic was – aside from the briefest of mentions in a flash-instruction session – but they laughed anyway. The chuckles were forced, but it was something, and better than silence. Besides, they expected it of him.

It was the least he could do.


	2. RC1309 Niner

**Simple Things**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Star Wars or any of the Republic Commando characters.  
**Author's Note**: Randomly decided to try continuing the short fics. Niner's POV.  
**Summary**: (Republic Commando, post Hard Contact) The clone commandos contemplates the simple things as Omega Squad prepares for their next mission.

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Simple Things  
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**(RC-1309 "Niner" )**

Niner also liked it simple, like Fi, but he knew just as well as the rest of his brothers that simple was only a fantasy. So instead he always prepared for the worst, while going by the book – not that there _was_ a "book", but taking things literal usually was the closest bit of control he could muster. If he couldn't have simple, he'd at least like to have control.

At the moment, _being in control_ simply meant obsessively checking his HUD's chrono every few seconds.

"Go time in five," Fi said. "Let's crash this little Sep picnic; breaks my heart how they forgot to invite us."

Niner almost smiled. Instead, after the forced chuckles died down, he said, "Then it's our job to remind them who we are."

His brothers nodded. They weren't his original podmates – they had all been killed at some point, hence the formation of what he knew were being called "mongrel squads" – but he liked them. More importantly, he _trusted_ them. That was more important than anything else. Trust and loyalty were the currency of the GAR clones, as far as he was concerned, and from he'd heard from Kal Skirata, they were both like honor in this day and age: exceedingly rare, hard-won, yet more lasting and final than any amount of credits in the Republic. That was what _simple_, in the end, meant to Niner. _Simple_ was knowing who you could trust and who deserved loyalty. Simple was knowing who _didn't_.

Those generally deserved to be slotted. Or ignored. Either worked.

It really couldn't get any more simple than that.

Unfortunately that meant that other than those core concepts, things had a habit of making themselves as complicated as possible. As far as he saw it, it was his duty to tackle these…complications, in whatever shape and form, head on, and do his best to get the mission accomplished and his brothers out alive. Mongrel squad or not.

He made it a point to keep tabs on how his brothers were feeling as much as possible. That meant talking to them personally in frequent one-to-one's, doing his best to read the little nuances of emotion and mood in what they said – nuances that he knew now were practically invisible to what was that _other_ breed of alien – civvies, wets, non-combats, there were plenty of names for what he didn't know and wasn't entirely sure he _wanted_ to know. The galaxy could be split into five categories: brothers, Kal Skirata (deserving of a category all to his own), civvies, tinnies and Jedi.

Tinnies were easy enough to understand, so long as you knew the most efficient way of slotting them. Kal Skirata was…well, he was _Skirata_ and there was simply no other words that did the man justice. Civvies were utterly foreign, and vaguely threatening, in Niner's opinion. He couldn't trust any wet who could just as easily beg for mercy as stab you in the back with something as primitive as a pitchfork.

And then there were the Jedi.

Niner couldn't help glancing at Darman. Darman had been exceedingly close to Jedi – to one Jedi in particular – since their first mission on Qiilura, although any concerns that Niner had about such a fascination being distracting were laid to rest by his brother's performance. The man _knew_ and breathed ordnance. But his fellow clone also had a habit of perking up whenever Etain was mentioned, actively interested in her welfare; it wasn't a problem yet, but Niner didn't want Darman to get his hopes up.

Best to focus on the mission. Doing anything else just made things more complicated than they needed to be.

Niner checked his chrono again. 300, by Coruscant – Triple Zero – time.

It was time. He didn't even have to say anything – they all rose as one, with Niner slightly in the lead, and trooped from the bench into the hold of the medium-sized, three tiered luxury transport waiting for them. It wasn't a Corellian vessel, which was slightly disappointing; Niner quite liked Corellian ships. They were reliable, efficient, ridiculously sturdy and could double as a gunship as readily as a passenger yacht; nevermind the space for all kinds of "modifications", which made them adaptable to boot. Niner was hardly an expert on spacecraft, but this luxury transport was just was it looked like.

And what was more, for appearances sake, it would soon be filled with actual civilians (_wealthy_ ones), once they were cleared of the small fleet orbiting Bakura. The luxury transport was too small to be called a cruiser, but that didn't stop people from vacationing, even if something as inconventient as a war happened to be going on at the same time. Most of Omega Squad would be concealed in a special cargo hold outfitted just for this mission alone, with the exception of Darman.

For some reason Niner couldn't fathom, Darman had been selected by Omega's CO to be stationed onboard the main guest tier. It was why he was currently sweating up a storm underneath his Katarn-class armor; he wore an additional layer of civvie clothes, something that he complained about itching and making him feel "like I've got 'useless' plastered all over my back". It was an improvement, Fi chimed up with a straight face, now the clothes matched the clone. _That_ had earned him a good _thwack _across his shoulder plate from Darman.

Still…Niner had a distant feeling that if Darman wanted to switch clothes with Fi, Fi wouldn't have made much of an argument. Civvies fascinated Fi like Jedi did Darman. Best if Fi was with the rest of his brothers. Niner didn't really like the idea of him wandering around up in _that_ kind of jungle, where credits made a man. The plan was to pile into the cargo hold, get settled in for the ride, get Darman out of his armor and onto the main tiers – just like a tourist.

"Have fun, Darman," Fi said, the grin still in his voice. It sounded a bit strained to Niner.

"I will," Darman replied, in a way that said he most certainly _wouldn't_.

Atin came up behind them, ducking through the narrow hatch into the cargo hold. "Move it, Fi. You'll get to play tourist next time." He gave Fi an almost playful half-shove. "But until then, we get to baby-sit you."

Niner brought up the rear, his helmet's T-slit glowing blue as he went in after Atin, closing the hatch after them manually. Darkness sealed them in. Atin could be distant to his fellow clones, but he had a good head on his shoulders, although he was pretty tight-lipped about anything having to do with his former squads. Niner thought that he seemed to be around Fi a good deal more than usual, but said nothing. If anything, having Atin around might ground Fi. Better than this strange desire to be around civies. Niner trusted Atin. He didn't trust civilians. At all.

"Let's load up. Keep the chatter to the standard channels," Niner said quietly. "And Darman?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful up there."

"I'll watch my back, if that's what you mean," Darman's voice was wry in the darkness. The luxury ship's engines rumbled to life around Omega Squad, and Niner could feel the vibration of the drives kicking in through his boots. "I'll miss my armor though. I don't know how civvies can stand walking around like this. It screams 'shoot me'."

After a while – a standard hour, another compulsive check of the chrono told him – Niner saw the helmet from Darman's direction lift off and set down on the floor. Atin and Fi helped their brother out of the armor, Fi stooping down and collecting the bits and pieces, neatly stacking them and stashing them into a satchel. Another hour and Darman slipped out the hatch that led into the lowest tier, the door hissing shut behind him. He was gone.

Niner checked his chrono. Darman would be out there for five hours – six if there was a delay, and there would be, civvies were notoriously unreliable – and then they'd deploy once they'd been successfully smuggled planet-side.

He just hoped that everything would go according to plan. Above all else, Niner wanted Darman back where he could see him. Civvies complicated everything. So much could go wrong in ways he couldn't predict (though he'd tried), that it made him almost prefer to be crawling around in the muck and grass back in Qiilura. Almost, but not quite.

Actually, what he'd like most, what would make things almost _simple_, was to have Skirata here. Niner tried to channel his trainer, but he knew he'd never match the real thing – and the real thing would be a lot more comforting than Niner playing at being a replacement Skirata for his brothers.

But he was the next best thing. Niner could take some comfort in that.


	3. RC1136 Darman

**Simple Things**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Star Wars or any of the Republic Commando characters.  
**Author's Note**: Randomly decided to try continuing the short fics. Darman's POV. Mando'a words from the nifty Mando'a language created by Karen Traviss, cause she's awesome like that. Glossary pretty much from RC: Triple Zero, so mostly reposted for those not familiar with some of the words reading this.  
**Summary**: (Republic Commando, post Hard Contact) The clone commandos contemplates the simple things as Omega Squad prepares for their next mission.

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Simple Things  
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**(RC-1136 "Darman" )**

Simple to Darman was wishing he was back with his brothers.

Right now that was all he could think about.

Being surrounded by so many _civilians_ made him nervous, really nervous, and he found himself unconsciously keeping to the walls of the ballroom, wishing he had his good old Deece on hand to make him feel less…well, less vulnerable. All clones of course knew hand to hand combat, but it was usually under the assumption that the clone in question would be wearing his issued armor, with at least a vibroblade in hand. Darman was neither in his armor, nor armed with a vibroblade.

In fact, this was the first time in his brief life – that he could remember – where he was completely and utterly _naked_.

Darman didn't like it.

He liked it less that not only was he unarmed, but he was also surrounded by a countless number of civvies, many of which were dressed in strange, bewilderingly expensive clothes capable of easily concealing a Verpine or hold-out blaster in those furred mantles and sweeping robes. Danger seemed to be everywhere. Darman fidgeted. The briefing had been simple, even the last minute orders from Omega's CO regarding the plant (himself) in the main passenger tier, but sitting here, waiting for the luxury transport to make it to its destination, _simple_ seemed pretty far away.

Actually, if there was a way to defy all he knew from flash instructions about physics and travel back in time, Darman wouldn't mind being back on Qiilura. The civilian population had been considerably less dense, certainly not invading whatever sense of personal space he had, and he'd been with his brothers.

And Etain.

This was his first time seeing so many human females all in one place and he honestly didn't know what to make of them. They appeared to be of all sorts of different shapes and sizes, more than he thought could even be possible. The Kaminoans hadn't exactly included much in the way of humans and their social structures in the flash instruction curriculum and it showed – Darman couldn't help feeling dazzled and disoriented by all the variety surrounding him. There were large human females, with rings and necklaces straining around their bulging necks, stick-thin ones he could probably snap in half who carried themselves as if they hadn't a fear in the world, sweeping past with a tinkle of elaborate headdresses.

But none of them were Etain.

None seemed to exude that strange energy that _she_ did, though many of them were probably a lot better looking. Not that he was any expert on human looks – all he knew was that they were all _different_, dizzyingly so. Something about them made him want to curl his lip in disgust, though he couldn't quite place a finger on it. He doubted that these females, unlike Etain, would be willing to get down and dirty to do a job, be willing to sacrifice a lightsaber in order to use a conc cannon and do it without any complaints whatsoever.

In short, they were shadows, and as far as Darman was concerned, they were nuisances and distractions.

He managed, just barely, _not_ to jump when one of the white-suited waiters suddenly materialized in front of him with a tray of glasses in his face.

"Cocktail, sir? We've got everything from Baaldish to Nubian," the other man said. He flashed him a very white, very even smile. "It's on the house for tonight – you look like you could use one," he added, dropping his voice to what he thought was a whisper, "if you're shy."

Darman blinked. "Shy?" he asked intelligently.

"You know what I mean," the waiter winked.

Darman didn't know what he meant.

"Some of the other guests wouldn't mind a word with you," the waiter said. He flicked his eyes toward one of the thinner females, one of the ones dressed in the more opulent dresses and finery. She happened to look over and catch Darman's eyes, her red lips curving up in a strange little smile that made him feel uncomfortable. "You stand out."

That was the last thing Darman wanted to hear.

He glanced down at what he wore: some kind of black slacks with red lining the sides, a jacket with trim of the same color, and a belt slung across his hip. The belt didn't even have a holster for a blaster, not even a small one, which struck him as utterly useless. It didn't help that the pants were too tight to smuggle in a vibroblade underneath them; he'd most certainly tried, but the outline of the knife could be seen through the slacks and so he'd had to go without. Had he been spotted for what he was? Darman was supposed to be the only clone on the passenger tiers, so that shouldn't have happened…

The waiter didn't notice his hesitation. He lifted one of the finely wrought glasses from his tray, some kind of clear purple liquid swishing about inside, and gave it to Darman. He accepted it but didn't taste it. Distracted or not, he wasn't about to go trying out strange drinks in a place that made him feel this uncomfortable. He reminded himself to pour it out somewhere next change he got.

That chance looked like it was a long way from coming.

The woman from before, with the red-painted lips and the disconcerting smile, was now heading in his direction, her hips swaying this way and that in a fashion that bordered on hypnotic. Darman licked his lips. More than ever he wanted to turn around and jump right back into the cargo hold – this female wouldn't even _be_ approaching him if he'd been standing here in the comfort of his Katarn-class armor. Most likely she'd be running in the opposite direction, and, to be frank, he'd feel a lot better with that reaction.

"You don't seem to be enjoying yourself," the woman _purred_. Darman found it highly distracting. "What's a nice, handsome boy like you doing sitting by yourself?"

Darman stiffened under her attentions. "This is my first time on a cruise," he said truthfully. He neglected to mention the fact that he wouldn't even be topside if he hadn't been ordered to. "And I _am_ enjoying myself."

"Don't look it. You look bored."

"Not much going on."

"There's plenty – you just have to get out and…mingle. But where are my manners? My name's Injirala. Injirala M'sal," the female said. She held out her hand imperiously, rings glittering on her flawless fingers. "But 'Injira' works as well."

Darman stared at the outstretched hand, baffled as to what he was supposed to do with it. He looked up from the hand to the woman's – to Injira's face – and found himself wishing that he'd switched clothes with Fi. Fi would've probably enjoyed all this fraternizing with civvies. The thought of five hours being surrounded by these laughing, chattering and altogether alarming _di'kute _made Darman grind his teeth in frustration.

Realizing that while he didn't know what to do with the hand, he _was_ probably expected to introduce himself, Darman chose to ignore the hand and stood up a little straighter.

"I'm Mirsh'kyramud ti Mir'osik," Darman said. He had to remember to smack Fi harder for being the one to pick his alias. _Mirsh'kyramud ti Mir'osik_ was hardly complimentary in Mando'a, amounting to a rather insulting play on words. It essentially translated in Basic to _a boring person with dung for brains_…and that was the _polite_ version.

Oh, he'd definitely give Fi a good slap for this one.

Injira smiled up at him, her earrings jingling together

"A good, long name. I might have to settle for Mirsh – I'm afraid I might mangle the rest of it if I even tried!" she giggled. "Walk with me?" She held out an elbow expectantly.

What was it with females and offering body parts at him? It took Darman a brief second to realize that maybe he was supposed to _take_ the elbow. He reached out and gingerly held onto it like it was a thermal detonator about to go off in his face; apparently he'd done something right, for Injira's smile widened and she led him further into the deck. They passed through a sea of dancing couples, of different species and heights, and Darman had to remind himself that he had a job to do. It didn't involve gaping.

He was here for a job. Intel said that there were only two beings of interest on this ship – a Bakuran Senator suspected of Sep sympathies and allegedly another GAR plant, a non-clone. Just what the other plant was doing here apparently wasn't something Darman needed to know (_plausible deniability_), but at least his part in this would be relatively uncomplicated. Well, uncomplicated in _theory_.

His briefing didn't say anything about being dragged all over the passenger deck by a strange, overly dressed female with an alarming tendency to giggle and giggle _a lot_.

"Let's go by the view deck, Mirsh," Injira was saying. For some reason, all that giggling left her out of breath, and Darman found that his eyes kept getting drawn to her ample, heaving chest. He quickly looked away.

"Just for a little while."

Injira fluttered her long eyelashes at him. "I'd like that."

_Fierfek_, maybe the Kaminoans were right, in this case, not to educate clones on females. Judging from the last minute crash course he was getting right now, Darman wasn't too sure he liked them. If it wasn't for the fact that he was strung up on nerves and adrenaline out of fear and paranoia right now (lack of armor and weapons tended to do that, especially if you lived by them), this Injira could be a greater distraction than she already was. He made sure to slip his free hand into his pocket and check that the one weapon he had was still there: a coil of razor thin wire, for what Fi deemed suitable for a little case of _extreme close quarters introductions_.

Darman hoped he wouldn't have occasion to use it. Not that he had any _qualms_ about killing – he was bred to kill, after all – but trying to dispose of a body with so many civvies around was bound to cause panic. Inevitably he'd have a big mess on his hands, seeing as there were a decidedly limited number of places to stash a body without someone coming across it sooner or later. Said mess would probably alert the suspect Senator to his presence. And if it was Darman versus a blaster? There was no question to what _that_ outcome was. Darman wasn't used to actually having to be worried about conventional blasters, not when his Katarn class armor made them pretty much obsolete.

No clone could outrun a blaster shot, not even an ARC.

"Looks like we're about to go into hyperspace," Injira was now saying. She leaned forward, practically spilling out of that dress, and peered out the transparisteel window with interest. Darman could feel the faint shift through the floor panels of the sub-light drives faltering, the rumble as the hyperspace ones began to kick in. "Maybe I'm just eccentric, but I love hyperspace. The blue is so _gorgeous_."

This woman was either extremely observant or she had a _special_ interest in ships to be able to tell, without an announcement from the pilots, that they were about to make a jump. Both seemed to be out of character for a female that, as far as he was concerned, was downright flighty and only seemed capable of tittering.

Again he wished _Etain _was here, rather than this talkative civvie.

Then came the announcement:

"_Ladies and gentlemen, guests of the _First Horn, _I would like to announce that we will be making the jump to hyperspace in approximately three minutes_," the intercom rang out, the pilot's voice calm and assured. "_We should reach our first stop in five standard hours. Feel free to enjoy the many refreshments and forms of entertainment we of the _First Horn _offer. Thank you."_

Darman happened to glance around during all this. Another female, this one with the tell-tale horns of a Zabrak ringed around her tatooed head like a crown, was sitting down on a bench up against the wall, nursing a tall glass of some kind of wine. She hadn't been there before. Darman filed her sudden presence as something to be aware of, his hand fingering the length of wire in his pocket nervously, when Injira rounded on him.

"So what do you think of this whole…war?" Injira made a little face at the word _war_, as if it was something with a bad smell. "Silly, isn't it?"

Darman turned his attention on her, keeping the Zabrak at the edge of his vision. "I don't think it's silly," he said. _Not when my brothers are out there dying_. "Not when it effects my family."

Injira zeroed in on this. "Your family?"

"My father's in the CSF," Darman said stiffly. "And my little brother was in the Battle of Geonosis."

"Was?"

"He died."

"Oh…" Injira's face fell into an careful study of sadness. "I'm sorry."

Somehow she didn't sound sorry at all.

Darman decided there and then that he didn't care much for this Injira. He slipped his elbow out from under hers and walked a few paces away. Was it his imagination, or did that female Zabrak wink at him? When he glanced back at her, the drunken Zabrak was nodding off into her half-empty wine glass. Feeling like things were slipping more and more out of his control with the appearance of all these – these _females_, Darman reminded himself that he'd complicated things further by unnecessarily mingling with them.

"I should get back…"

"Oh Mirsh, please don't," Injira stepped forward. She touched him on the arm. She was lucky Darman didn't have his Deece – with his nerves running this high, it would've been pressed against her temple in a heartbeat. "I'm sorry. I really am."

"The war's not a game," Darman grunted. He was starting to get a suspicion about this female, but decided that his best bet was to play it dumb. It was amazing what people would tell you when they thought they were mentally superior. Probably best to stick to his alias and act the part of clueless _mir'osik_ civvie.

He hesitated, as if he was really thinking about something. This Injira didn't match the Bakuran Senator's profile, but for all he knew, she could be close to that little Sep circle – intel had said the Senator in question probably was traveling with a Seperatist-sympathetic entourage, although they would only be tailing the Senator. Darman had five hours to try filling in the gaps in intel, and anyway, she seemed awfully intent on getting to know who _he_ was as soon as possible. _Kal'buir_ said that a gut feeling usually tended to be the one that pointed you in the right direction.

Usually.

"I guess I'm just confused, that's all," Darman sighed. He surprised even himself with how sincere he sounded.

"Is that why you're on this little cruise?"

"…Yeah. Figure I could get time and try to sort myself out."

Injira licked her full lips. "I feel the same way."

Darman thought he was shaping up to be a better liar than expected. "I used to be really close with my brother," it wasn't hard to look down at his hands and sound shaken – all he had to do was remember how he'd lost his pod-mates, the brothers he'd known for ten years vanishing that one hot, dusty day on Geonosis. "So once he died, I started wondering…"

"…you were wondering why he died?"

"Yeah."

"It makes sense to feel that way, Mirsh"

"I don't know _how_ I should feel."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I...I don't like this doubt."

Injira glanced out the viewport, at the blue tunnel of hyperspace beyond the transparisteel. A little smile crossed her lips, almost sad. "I used to think that way too," she said slowly. "I used to think _why are we fighting_? We've been neighbors, _friends_, and now the galaxy is torn apart because of an inability to adapt to the times."

Darman was silent. He fingered the strangle-wire in his pocket, turning it idly over in his hands.

"_We're_ torn apart," Injira said. "And if we keep to the older ways, we'll only get torn apart again and again."

That _definitely_ sounded like Sep talk to Darman.

Suddenly things fell into place. Things were mercifully _simple_ again. Now the only thing Darman had to decide was how much he could get from this woman; how much would lead him to that Bakuran Senator and identify just how _many_ of these _chakaare_ Seps were onboard.

Although doing all this without arousing suspicion would be considerably more difficult. Darman cheerfully decided to aim low – with low standards, he figured he couldn't be too disappointed. He thought that if he made it out of this alive, got back with his Omega brothers and eventually saw Etain, things would be good.

Things would be _simple_ again.

--  
Mini-Glossary  
_  
Chakaare - thieves; graverobbers  
CO - Commanding Officer  
CSF - Coruscant Security Force  
Di'kute - idiots; morons; general insult  
Fierfek - expeletive; curse  
GAR - Grand Army of the Republic_  
_Kal'buir - Father Kal_


	4. RC3222 Atin

**Simple Things**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Star Wars or any of the Republic Commando characters.  
**Author's Note**: Randomly decided to try continuing the short fics. Atin's  
**Summary**: (Republic Commando, post Hard Contact) The clone commandos contemplates the simple things as Omega Squad prepares for their next mission.

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Simple Things  
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**(****RC-3222 "Atin" )**

_Simple_ for Atin is easy.

Right now he lives in the moment. Right now all he thinks about are two things: monitoring Darman's progress through the bead sized commlink in his adopted brother's ear, listening in on the conversation, and cleaning his DC-17m rifle after dissembling it and reassembling it. Everything is working order on the rifle end.

But he doesn't like what he's hearing on the Darman end. Once he realizes just where Darman's going with this, he immediately relays the comm feed to his other brothers so they can track him as well. They, like Darman, aren't his pod-brothers. No, they are adopted brothers, and sometimes when Fi isn't bugging him, Atin feels that strange sense of disconnection, as if he's someone else looking in on the squad. Darman, Fi and Niner all come from Sergeant Skirata's batch. Atin doesn't.

Atin tries not to think of his trainer, Walon Vau.

There's bad blood of the worst kind between Vau and Atin; he swore to himself that he'd repay that blood in full sooner or later.

Thinking about Vau makes the white scar running the length of his face itch a little. It always does. Luckily there's atmosphere in the cargo hold, and Atin can reach up to scratch at it idly without really thinking about it. It's not his only scar, just his latest, but it sets him apart from his new brothers, at least in _his_ mind. Taking care of his Deece tends to keep his thoughts relatively simple, and the constant monitoring of Darman's movements up till now has kept him pretty much occupied.

Atin pushes Vau out of his mind and leans forward, his gauntleted arms resting on his knees. Fi sits closest, still wearing his helmet, but Atin can tell that he's listening and listening _hard_ from the way his head is tilted to the left. Niner's perfectly still from where he crouches on the cargo hold's deck, also armed, but alert.

They can all hear Darman and the clueless Sep contact talking. The audio feed from Darman's commlink is as clear as if they were walking right in front of the rest of Omega Squad, rather than who knows where.

Darman's playing it smooth right now; Atin doesn't know how he does it. He sounds pretty convincing, even to his clone brothers, and if Atin didn't know better, he'd say that Darman sounded just like a conflicted, naïve little civvie, ripe for getting recruited into _some_ kind of cause. Ironic, that. Clones don't fight for a cause, not one they have any actual stake in – they aren't even paid, nor given any leave. So hearing Darman with his civvie act is a bit surprising. Atin bets he's surprising even himself.

"_My father's always away on business_," Darman's voice explains "_So it's mostly just me_."

Injira M'sal makes that little rise in pitch that sounds like a cluck. "_My parents were like that too_."

"_So you're from Bakura_?"

"_Yes, but I'm on vacation – let's go this way, Mirsch – so I don't really want to talk about all the boring details of work. You know how it is_."

"_Yeah_."

"_You've been carrying that Nubian cocktail around _everywhere _since we met. You don't drink?"_

Darman's shaping up to be a wonderful liar. "_Sorry. Weak stomach, I think. You want it_?"

Atin puts his helmet back on and accesses the layout of the ship stored in his HUD with a series of rabid blinks, all the while listening to the conversation with a faint frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. Darman is _supposed_ to keep to a pre-determined area – one which the Bakuran Senator is sure to pass through in the five hours before touchdown, according to intel – but now his little yellow blip on the map is weaving this way and that, often straying out of the zone. Niner's breathing is still, deadly still, and Atin knows, just _knows_ that he's unhappy with the fact that such a straightforward mission is already deviating from the briefing this early on in the game.

Only it's not a game, this is _real_, as real as Kamino. As real as Qiilura. If something happens there, if they need to bang out, Darman's the one least protected and most likely to be KIA.

Fi switches to a private channel with Atin. He doesn't do it often. And Atin somehow gets the feeling that he doesn't do it with the others. He doesn't know why, but it cheers him up a little to have Fi confide in him. He loves all his new brothers, but he likes Fi the best. There's just something about all the bad jokes and flippant attitude that he finds appealing in the other clone.

Fi reminds him of Delta Squad's Scorch, only without the competition and perfectionism pounded into him by Vau. Atin quickly cuts off _that_ train of thought before it goes into ugly memories and unwanted feelings.

"You think one of us should go up there and have a look-see?" Fi asks. "Might be a trap; _could_ be fun."

"I don't think Niner would appreciate that, and anyway, it'd compromise the mission."

Fi pauses. "I think Dar's doing a great job compromising the mission already without our help."

True. Atin can't really argue with that, but still. He doesn't know what to say, except to repeat himself, only he doesn't have to. Fi makes a little breathy sound (probably a sigh), and his helmet's visor in the dark shifts a bit.

"I wish we could just go out and slot the bad guys. I _like_ knowing who to shoot and when," says Fi. "It's just so much easier when it's just us and the droids and the shooting…none of this sneaking around without _armor_," he finishes, sounding scandalized.

"Armor doesn't make the clone."

Fi's often maniac grin is practically audible through their commlink right now. "Sure makes him shiny though."

Niner suddenly cuts in. He can't hear what they're actually _saying_, but he's figured out by now that they're speaking privately from the way their helmets are turned slightly toward one another. The man never misses anything – it's part of his methodical, careful nature that makes him the unofficial leader of Omega Squad.

"Can the chatter," he says. "Fi, did you get that last part?"

Fi has, despite talking through it. "Darman just went to the 'fresher, Sarge," Fi says brightly. "Has little Miss Sep waiting for him outside."

"Exactly. He's got a limited window to tell us just what the _fierfek_ he thinks he's doing," Niner says. "So I want all _everyone_ on this -" he cuts himself off as a whisper on the commlink interrupts him.

"_Darman in, over."_

Everyone holds their breath as Niner confronts Darman. He's doing that teeth clicking thing again, Atin notices, but he doesn't know just _where_ his new brother picked it up. He'll have to ask Fi sometime, he might know.

"Niner here. Explain what you think you're doing; make it short."

"_Short's all I got_," Darman keeps it to the point. "_I'm doing a little _aggressive intel_, filling the gaps and such; I've reason to believe my new friend might be able to help in that area_."

Niner starts to say something, but the other clone commando beats him to it.

"_And _no_, I'm _not _planning on slotting her if I can help it_. _I just feel that intel was a bit…sketchy in regards to just how many Seps' we've got on our hands. We can't effectively bag this Senator unless we know how much muscle he's got around him. This shouldn't take long anyway_."

"You and I are going to have a nice little chat once you get back," Niner finally says. "I _mean_ it."

"_Looking forward to it. Darman out."_

Atin fingers his Deece, resisting the urge to take it apart again as he runs his gloved hands absently along the stock. It'd be pointless, but it's reassuring in the same way that it's probably reassuring to Fi to be so mouthy or for Niner to be….to be so _by the book,_ he supposes. They're all worried about Darman. Atin usually isn't one to question orders, but he thinks that their brother up there might – just _might_ – have a point.

The Bakuran Senator in question is some human called Ern Ruul, traveling to a planet called Cerea under the pretense of vacationing. Intel, however, has confirmed from an inside source that he'll transfer from Cerea to Riflor. Riflor is currently a neutral planet, but with Ruul there, the higher ups don't think he's there for the temperate climate – Riflor's a volcanic planet, home to the Advozse known for developing the hyperdrive in ships. Naturally it would be a valuable asset for the Seps if they got their hands on it.

That is what Omega Squad is for.

A little bit of _relocation_ for good Senator Ruul...of the more _permanent_ nature.

The official stop for the luxury ship _First Horn_ is Cerea, a mere hop with sub-light drives from Riflor. This is where Omega jumps ship – Ruul is the main target of their mission objective, but seeing as intel states he's heading for a conference with other high-profile Sep targets, some wanted dead or alive, Atin thinks that they might be able to look forward to a good firefight in the near future. Ruul's no military man, so he'll be easy enough to net. It's just a matter of effectively denying Riflor from landing itself in the CIS and taking out the Senator's muscle.

Muscle that could be traveling with Ruul this very moment onboard the _First Horn_.

So maybe Darman's thinking ahead after all.

It's still a little over three standard hours before they can expect to make the stop at Cerea. Atin settles back against the wall of the cargo hold, drawing his Deece up and folding his legs under him, getting as comfortable as he can get. It's not too bad, a lot better than some places he's been, so he can't complain.

"I'll wake you up," Fi suddenly says, reading his mind. "Just don't start drooling on my shoulder."

Atin rolls his eyes, glad that he's got the helmet still on. "If anything happens –"

"You'll be awake for it."

He glances at Niner, but Niner doesn't object. He can see from the HUD icon that Niner's busy trying to calculate Darman's new little mission, tracing his movements on the map, and reviewing – yet again – all the information from the briefing. Hardly surprising. Atin settles down further, Deece cradled protectively in his armored hands. He's practically been born with a rifle attached to his person, so the DC-17m in his arms is far more comforting than anything else, with the nearby presence of his new brothers running a close second. Closing his eyes, he eventually nods off.

The next thing he's aware of is Fi reaching out and touching him on the shoulder – he feels it even through the gray commando armor. Atin's awake immediately and ready to go right there and then, because anything slower could be the crucial second between dead or alive, even if there isn't an apparent threat. His body reacts before his brain, snapping awake instantly.

"We're almost there," Fi says. He gives Atin a friendly swat across his helmet. "Rise and shine, Princess."

Atin rewards him with a little shove back, their armor clanking at the contact. "Knock it off; I'm up."

"Had to check," Fi replies with his usual cheek. And in the way that only he can, Fi suddenly flips it _off_, like a switch. He's back down to business. "We're orbiting Cerea at the moment – they're waiting to be cleared for atmospheric re-entry and then the _Horn_ should land in approximately twenty minutes, give or take."

"And Darman?"

"Still with that _di'kut_. I don't even _want_ to know what they're doing."

"It's our business to know," Niner says soberly. Always one to be prepared, he's taken up position next to the hatch exit, picking at the webbing holding pieces of an unassembled Plex rocket launcher strapped across his back. Being as this mission has such a short window, they haven't brought the E-Webs this time, which is just as well – Atin remembers having to lug all that kit around on Qiilura for days. He's still a bit surprised his arms hadn't been pulled out of their sockets from that little camping trip. "He's still topside. He checked in a few minutes ago."

"He find anything?"

"Darman didn't have enough time to tell me the full details, but he's made contact with our friend Ern Ruul. Turns out that female civvie with him is Ruul's _step-daughter_," Niner says. He sounds a bit reluctant to admit that Darman made a potentially foolish risk...one that looks to be paying off now. "He's managed to identify at least twenty wets, all probably armed and packing."

"Fun," says Fi.

"Four might be professionals; Darman hasn't given us a positive ID on them yet. We're not taking chances," Niner nods meaningfully toward the Plex across his back. "Probably not Jango levels of fun, but that'll work in our favor. Positions, gentlemen."

Taking Niner's cue, Atin moves to take position back pressed up against the wall, Fi standing at the opposite wall in a nearly perfect mirror image. But it's really all appearances – the armor, actually – since Atin knows that Fi and Niner are nothing like him. He knows for certain that not even Delta's Sev would have offered to wake him up. Atin appreciate Fi's gesture; really, he does. So far they've worked together well, but he doesn't think they'll mesh all the way just yet. Eventually he'll have to tell the squad just _where_ he stands, tell them his whole history with Vau, with Delta Squad.

Right now, however, things are _simple_.

To Atin, all that matters is just waiting for the hatch to open and Niner's order of _move out, stay low_ and wait for Darman to come back. Once he does, they'll be a full squad; a mongrel squad, maybe, but still there would be four brothers accounted for and that's what really matters, in the end.

Atin checks the setting on his Deece. It's fully charged, double and triple-checked for any bugs.

Darman might've complicated the mission, but Atin for once has a good feeling about the odds.


	5. Complications RC 8015 Fi

**Simple Things**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Star Wars or any of the Republic Commando characters.  
**Author's Note**: Fi's POV yet again. From the simple arises the inevitable complications.  
**Summary**: (Republic Commando, post Hard Contact) The clone commandos contemplates the simple things as Omega Squad prepares for their next mission.

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Simple Things  
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**(RC-8015 "Fi" )**

Darman certainly had a knack for making things more complicated than they had to be, didn't he?

No, Fi wasn't bitter. Just stating the obvious; he seemed to have a knack for it. _Obvious_ said that Darman took a potentially big, stupid risk playing with fire and somehow, with his typical personal brand of luck, come out on top. _On top_ being _still alive_, which Fi thought was a pretty good goal for any GAR clone.

He caught himself wishing he'd gotten a glimpse of the _First Horn's _passenger deck when it was full. Just a little glimpse. He'd seen the holo layouts, but that wasn't quite the same thing. No, he'd have only gotten distracted and even a moment's distraction could be fatal to his team of adopted brothers. Fi gave himself a mental slap, straightened, hands tightening around his Deece as he resolved himself to tracking the _First Horn's_ entry into Cerea's atmosphere instead of wasting his time worrying about what civvies were doing up several decks above.

Fi went over the unloading procedure in his head. They'd be first off in order to secure positions, if everything went to plan (good chance of that there), and be concealed in the space of minutes if not seconds before the first passenger stepped planet-side. Fi had the data of the docking space uploaded into his HUD, and he'd been reassured that they'd have a good blind spot on their cargo hold side to make their exit. For once they weren't crawling around in snow in _black _armor or being forced to free fall out of a crashing crop duster; so by all rights, Fi ought to be sharing in some of Atin's quiet optimism at the moment.

Oddly enough, he felt only a yawning emptiness.

He tried not to concentrate on it too much. He tried not to think of Darman fraternizing with the Seps. He fiddled restlessly with the sniper attachment on his Deece.

"You okay?" Atin suddenly asked. From the way Niner didn't move, Atin had opened a private channel. "Holding up?"

"Just getting a minor case of trigger finger. You know us kids and our guns, gotta have something to shoot to make us grow big and strong."

Atin wasn't fooled, only making an unconvinced grunt. They'd only known each other a few months, but already Atin was filling in some of the gap that Teroch Squad left in Fi's life. Fi liked Atin despite the fact that something about the other clone vaguely intimidated him – he couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he was fairly sure it was linked to that big white scar slashed across Atin's face. He'd meant to gutsy up to him and just _ask_, but he never seemed to have the opportunity: not between catching up on precious sleep, Niner's "chats", and the endless missions.

Clone commandos were in high demand with even higher casualty rates.

There quite literally was no time to stop.

It…it _drained_ Fi. He didn't know how, but he just couldn't seem to bounce back as quickly after each successful mission as he'd been able to in the past. The jokes he made seemed to get progressively worse and the smiles more strained.

It wasn't just the constant fighting either. Fi personally didn't care who was on the end of his DC-17m, so long as it was a bad guy lined up for the perfect headshot. Anyway, he'd been chosen to be fit, durable and utterly _committed_ to battling these Separatists. In other words, bred for it and stuck with it. He was pretty sure Sergeant Kal would've had a few choice words to say about it – all highly colorful and impressive – but it didn't change the fact or explain this drained feeling.

"Heads up," Niner said. He shifted position, ready to be the first to exit and provide cover. "_Contact_ in sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight…"

The actual landing on Cerea was quiet – there was just a shiver, a faint shudder, and overall far less noise than a laarty. _Or an ancient crop duster exploding around your ears_, Fi thought dryly. Compared to a laarty, riding in the cramped cargo hold of the _First Horn_ was practically riding first-class. For one, he wasn't jockeying for space with other clones, with standing room only, and grabbing on for dear life at the straps hanging from the ceiling.

Fi named them _Fierfek Strap_s, if only because he'd seen another clone lose his grip and actually _fall out_. In mid-flight. Above Geonosis. _Fierfek_ was really the only the word to describe the surge of cold, shocked horror Fi felt then at seeing the poor soldier suddenly just disappear over the edge like that, right as they'd been exchanging good lucks. One second the clone – he'd introduced himself as CC-four-five-five-one, no time for names – was there, the next second simply _gone_. Just empty space, the howling of the Geonosian wind blasting into the cramped hold and another clone moving up front to take CC-4551's abandoned spot.

The new clone made it a point to avoid talking to Fi, opting instead to just concentrate on holding onto that_ Fierfek Strap_ as if his very life depended on it. Given what'd happened seconds before, it most certainly did.

Fi had only told two people what he called those straps. One of them, a Jedi Padawan – a commander –almost smiled at this unexpected sign of creativity, gave him that _too-old too-young_ Jedi look and said something typically mystical and baffling about death. The other, Atin, hadn't smiled at all. Somehow that was more comforting than the nameless Padawan's reaction. Atin had been there up close and personal just as Fi had. Just as Darman and Niner had.

Niner was still counting down.

" – three, two, one, _contact_!"

And then Niner was out of the cargo hatch as soon as he'd enough space to clear it, covering all possible threat points with his Deece before giving the signal to move out. Atin was next, Fi behind him. They split off and took position, Atin perched up near the roof in record time, Niner already out of sight and Fi finding himself stuck with the garbage chute. Wonderful. He really _should_ request Procurement to find helmets that could selectively remove certain smells – whatever Cereans threw away smelled something awful.

Awful or not, that was his designated position and in Fi went. It was a bit of a squeeze with his armor, especially since he was also lugging Darman's kit, but a few seconds of careful wiggling got him through the cut in the grate and lying on his stomach in suspect liquids, Fi's own Deece propped up by his elbows. He could see outside, but there would be no visibility for someone trying to look in. He noted a service droid trundling past them with a glowing red ticker of _caution construction thank you_ for patience, the ticker lengthening as it crossed between them and the ship.

The service droid discreetly flashed a set of RC light codes their way for a few seconds and then rolled away just as the _First Horn_ began unloading the first class passengers.

"Thoughtful," Niner's voice said in Fi's ear. "I take it back if I ever said droids were useless except for scrap metal."

Atin was scanning the _First Horn_ from the roof. "No sign of Darman yet. Seeing some minor activity starboard side."

"Anything I'm not going to like?"

"Probably just unloading procedures, I'm not picking up anything out of the ordinary."

"What about Ruul?"

"He's transmitting loud and clear – Darman's got him tagged now," Atin paused. "And about at least two others tagged as well, not including Ruul's stepdaughter."

Darman had been busy indeed. Fi couldn't imagine how he'd gotten that many tagged without any catching on, especially since he'd quite literally met all of them _today_. Apparently civvies were quick to buy the naïve act and stupidly quick to trust. Fi shifted a little, keeping his DC-17 trained on the docked ship. He didn't think it was that simple, to tell the truth, but what mattered in the end was that Ern Ruul and a few of his Separatist buddies were tagged. Omega would know where they were so long as they remained planet-side.

Fi pressed the Deece's scope a bit closer, zooming in so he could watch the passengers exiting. He spotted Darman with his new Sep friend just as Atin did.

"There we go; Darman and crew."

For some reason that Separatist female Injira was hanging onto Darman, who was looking uncomfortable as he half-supported her. Injira was staggering, her shapely legs flashing out from her dress's slits as she held on heavily with one elbow crooked around Darman's neck for support. Fi rolled his eyes at this display, the targeting reticule trained comfortably on Injira's head, above her eyes, as she turned, drunk, and whispered something into Darman's ear. Even from here Fi could see the delayed reaction, Darman suddenly blushing furiously.

Fi's finger pressed gently on the trigger but didn't fire.

Yet.

"Easy, _ner vod_," Atin said quietly.

Fi lifted his finger from the Deece's trigger, resting it on the finger guard. "I'm good."

"They're not worth our time," Niner cut in on the commlink. "Just potential hostiles who think it's funny to barter in our brothers' lives for their politicking. So let's not get sentimental or trigger happy, Omega."

Fi wasn't too sure about sentimentality. Trigger happy, maybe, but sentimentality? No. If he had to blow out that female Separatist's brains out this very minute, he mostly certainly would without any hesitation whatsoever. The fact she was both female and human meant absolutely nothing to Fi. One of the bonuses of being raised by Kaminoans; the cloners didn't care about human ethics, only that the product – the clone army – they created for the Republic was as efficient as possible. That meant that no clone would hesitate on pulling the trigger.

Fi wasn't any different. But he couldn't help admitting that he wouldn't have minded being in Darman's place, just for a little while, to see up close and personal just who these Separatists were. Seeing as they were intent on killing Fi and his squad, and the millions of brothers out there, Fi was very interested in knowing just what kind of people these Seps were.

The problem wasn't pulling the trigger for Fi. The problem was he'd started wondering just _what_ happened outside their little safe niche of brothers, what non-clones did while the Grand Army of the Republic was out there every day fighting and dying for their worthless _shebs_.

Maybe he'd have another talk with Niner; _he_ seemed to be able to put all this ridiculous preoccupation with civvies into the proper perspective.

--  
Mini-Glossary

_GAR _- Grand Army of the Republic  
_Shebs_ - Mandolorian - backside; ass  
_Fierfek _- Mandolorian - expeletive, curse, general insult  
_Ner vod_ - Mandolorian - brother  
_laarty_ - vessel; a LAAT/i


	6. Complications RC 1309 Niner

**Simple Things**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Star Wars or any of the Republic Commando characters.  
**Author's Note**: Updateness. nod  
**Summary**: (Republic Commando, post Hard Contact) The clone commandos contemplates the simple things as Omega Squad prepares for their next mission.

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Simple Things  
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**(RC-1309 "Niner" )**

This whole mess with Darman was not only complicating the mission, it was distracting squad members.

In which case, Darman was going to get a pretty good grilling when he got back. _Skirata style_ grilling.

Niner didn't have to come from Fi's squad to know he wasn't happy about the recent developments, nor be able to see his body language to figure it out – the way his breath had hitched a little at the sight of Darman and that female Sep was enough.

From his vantage point, he could easily see the passengers exiting the _First Horn_, Darman visible through the scope of his Deece. Flicking past the female Separatist and his brother, Niner fixed on their target. The Bakuran Senator Ruul didn't look like much, just a round, flabby specimen of a human with some mixed breeding down the line, judging from the very faint violet tinge to his skin. Could be Twi'ilek. Niner tracked Darman and the Separatists as they crossed the landing platform, sunlight glinting off the fine robes and beaded headdresses as they headed toward the gates.

"I've got one of them using a commlink," Atin said. It wasn't Ruul, but the Hutt approaching his group, and a small one at that, her pudgy hand raised in greeting as she oozed forward through the arch. Awfully clean too. She looked almost respectable if Niner didn't know better, immaculate for her species, and hiding most of her slug's frame with some kind of royal blue cloth.

Darman neglected to mention that they had a _Hutt_ on their hands. "She's accessing the communications grid," Atin added.

"Who's she calling?"

A pause, as Atin monitored the connection through his helmet's link. "Looks like the co-pilot of a ship called the _Angler_. It's registered as a private luxury yacht, leased out through AeCrict Transervices."

"Oh, that's not conspicuous _at all_," Fi piped up. "It's not like anyone's going to notice a Hutt and a classy ship, and _not_ think something's wrong there."

Atin grunted, still tracking their progress. "You'd think you had something against Hutts with all that talk."

"I _like_ Hutts. They make great target practice, you don't even have to aim."

"Get me an ID on her," Niner said. He didn't like Hutts. Not because they were formidable physically – he didn't care how thick a Hutt's hide was, he seriously doubted it could take a grenade round – but because they had _connections_. Connections could buy all kinds of problems, ranging from unaccounted hired hands to illegal cannon that could even put a big dent in Katarn-class clone armor. Intel hadn't mentioned anything about Hutts.

This one could be legit (such Hutts existed, after all, even if they _were_ a rare breed), and for all he knew she could just be a tourist caught up with the wrong crowd. It happened. Always one to err on the side of caution, Niner would rather regard her as a possible threat than worry about whether he slotted a civilian or not.

She could easily be collateral damage, but he'd rather see an innocent slug fry than his own adopted brothers.

"Okay, I've got an ID," said Fi. Niner knew that he had his rifle aimed the Hutt's way: it was a calming technique for Fi, as if keeping the scope's reticule centered right over the target's vitals helped him to focus on the job ahead. It was times like these that he went utterly _calm_. "The only operating Hutt in the area, calls herself Yinma. Has a few ties with Durga, but as far as Hutts go, she's got a pretty clean record. Looks like she's working as a translator for the region.."

Niner watched as Yinma oozed to a stop before Ruul's group, gave a pretty good approximation of a bow, as much as her girth would allow, and held out a datapad. At these distances they couldn't hear anything, and Darman hadn't reached the Hutt yet. Why would Ruul need a translator? Niner suspected this was only further evidence that the Bakuran Senator was meeting with Separatists (many who didn't speak Basic), but Sergeant Skirata had always said that assuming didn't get you anywhere. _Hard_ evidence did, and Niner wanted to be _sure_ if he could help it.

By now Darman had got close enough to catch some of the conversation:

" - _Ahhh_," said Yinma in a long, rumbling groan, typical for a Hutt, "_so this is your step-daughter. A _pleasure_. I have arranged for your special accommodations, Senator, as well as for your companions. We'll be off shortly_."

Ruul walked at Yinma's side, having to take two steps just to keep pace with her. Despite her appearance, the Hutt could move and move _fast_. "_How long do we have?" _

The translator checked her chrono. "_A little over an hour, at least. I'm sorry but this is unfortunately the best transport I could get at such late notice that could handle these heat levels_."

Niner grunted. "Darman, you hear me?"

There was a small cough on the other end and Niner saw Darman's figure in the distance cough again into his hand. He was listening.

"Verify that the _Angler's_ destination is Riflor. Update the Sep count as well as any other expendables," said Niner. He looked at his HUD's chrono and frowned. They were off his projected schedule, and he estimated it could only get worse from here. "When they land on Riflor, you need to stay onboard and secure it by any means necessary once they leave."

Niner didn't like having to work out new plans on the fly, but he had a commando situated onboard an enemy vessel with the ability to commandeer it. As the highest ranking Omega, he needed to take advantage of that. Despite how many complications Darman had thrown into their plans Niner didn't want to risk any chance of the Senator or his Separatist friends escaping, and he needed to ensure that his means of escape was denied. They _had_ to take control of the _Angler_ and Darman was in the best position to start getting to work on this new objective.

Commandeering an entire yacht hadn't even been considered in the briefing.

Sometimes you had to _improvise_.

He got up off his knees, careful to keep crouched, and jogged along the roof, feeling the pieces of the Plex launcher knocking up against his chest plates.

"Atin, I need to know everything about that ship. Size, weight capacity, crew, everything. We also need landing coordinates for Riflor."

"On it."

"Fi, we're going to need a ship and it's got to be _fast_."

"Can I pick the color, Sarge?"

"Keep it discreet and I'll even let you pilot it home."

"Consider me motivated."

Niner accessed his map of the port, the images glowing in the range of his HUD for a moment. The _Angler_ was docked quite a distance a way and he had to keep up a healthy pace to reach it. Reaching Docking Bay 94, he knelt down and settled onto his stomach to present the smallest profile possible, shifting the dissembled Plex out of the way. Compared to the _First_ _Horn_, the _Angler_ was small and more streamlined, and he spotted several possible areas that could hold weaponry. It made sense for a yacht on loan to be equipped with its own cannon, especially in war-time like now, although he was still unsure if he wanted to have it disabled to deny the Seps cover or keep it online – he'd want to be cautious and have _some_ kind of firepower if they were going to blast off Riflor with Ruul intact.

He waited the two hours it took for the Bakuran Senator and company to get ready and board the _Angler_. By now Atin had reported in with his requested specs, and then went above and beyond by providing more background on Yinma the Hutt. Niner went over what he knew: Yinma was basically legit and didn't even have much of a criminal record, but did have the background and connections to be very attractive to the Separatists, Hutt or not. He supposed with the amount of credits she was raking in and her connections to Durga would make _any_ Sep willing to look past her slug exterior. She wasn't a Separatist yet, but she was a possible asset to their cause.

Definitely an expendable.

Niner wasn't too worried about having to take down a Hutt. He hadn't ever had to before, but he knew their physiology and he could rest assured that the Plex would be more than enough to soften her up. Hutts tended to complicate things and he was glad he wouldn't have to worry too much about this one. She'd be dead before she got a chance to be too much trouble, he reckoned.

No, the real issue was Darman…even though it looked like Darman was the solution to his own problem.

Niner would have still preferred it if Darman hadn't got it into his head to carry out his _aggressive intel _on the fly like that. He liked knowing where his brothers where and what they were thinking and right now he didn't know what half his squad was thinking.


	7. Complications RC 1136 Darman

**Simple Things**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Star Wars or any of the Republic Commando characters.

**Summary**: (Republic Commando, post Hard Contact) The clone commandos contemplates the simple things as Omega Squad prepares for their next mission.

X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X  
Simple Things  
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**(RC-1136 "Darman"** )

Darman knew Niner wasn't happy about all these complications.

That was okay, because Darman wasn't happy either. That made two of them.

It wasn't that Injira was particularly heavy, but having an intoxicated human female hanging off your shoulder and half-choking you wasn't how he had expected to spend this operation. Or preferred. But that was what it was now and that was what he had to focus on. At the moment, Darman was just making sure he didn't get strangled to death before he made it to Riflor.

At least he knew they were going to Riflor. The female Hutt translator and Ruul had confirmed it, in whispers, but it was amazing how close he could get, seeing as he was the unofficial human crutch for the Senator's step-daughter. Ruul seemed to like him for some reason. He even went so far as to call him "son", which Darman didn't particularly care for: only one man could get away with calling him that and Ruul wasn't him. Darman played nice and even went so far as to thank him. Skirata would have been proud of his good behavior.

Injira fell sick an hour later, leaving Darman to rush her to the nearest 'fresher so he could listen to the sounds of her retching. It seemed to take a while and he wondered how someone so short could have that much to throw up. After it seemed like the woman had vomited up her own body weight and then some, Darman decided to go in and check to make sure she was even still alive. He hadn't ever been in a Female Only refresher, but he wanted to make sure his ticket onto Riflor was still breathing and _not_ drowning in her bodily wastes.

The female Separatist was alive and well luckily, leaning against the basin of the sink with her head bowed. She jumped at the unexpected voice behind her.

"You okay?" Darman asked.

"M-Mirsch, what are you doing here?" Injira stammered, pulling aside a curtain of hair from her face and looking up. "This is the women's 'fresher."

Like a simple sign meant anything. He knew what it meant. He simply chose not heed it. "I was worried."

"Just had a bit too much, I'm afraid," Injira said, cradling her head with one hand as if to steady herself. "I'm fine, really. That's very kind of you to check up on me. Thank you."

Darman shifted uncomfortably. Separatist or not, he wasn't used to being thanked for anything. "You're welcome."

Injira began running water into the basin, and dabbed some of the water onto her face.

"I haven't met many men as nice as you are. It means a lot."

He put on an impassive face - what Skirata always called his boys' _killer faces_ and what Fi called _my best face_ - and glanced at the door, then back at the woman, thinking that if she was sick, she should be drinking more fluids to replace what she lost instead of talking so much. Injira was now rearranging her hair, tidying up the loose strands, and glancing curiously at his reflection in the mirror, her own face still pale but determined. She took his elbow (which Darman wasn't aware of even offering in the first place) and leaned on him a little as they stepped out into the glow of the midday sun. She wobbled, but managed to keep her feet under her this time.

The walk back to the _Angler_ was mercifully short, and a lot easier when he didn't have a sick human female hanging off his neck. Approaching the waiting ship, Darman had plenty of time to get a good long look at it. Yeah, it was definitely packing some heat there; he could see the low-slung laser cannon barrels peeking out under the _Angler's_ nose as they headed inside. As cannon went, it was depressingly weak – it wouldn't do much but tickle an enemy fighter if it had any respectable shields. But he supposed that when you were the rich and the elite, you tended to go by how big the blaster was rather than the actual specs of the thing. He just hoped that the shields on the yacht were a lot better than its heat, because he honestly didn't think firepower would be on their side when they made their retreat from Riflor.

The _Angler_ wasn't that big. Big enough to easily accommodate his squad and any cargo – probably just Ruul, because lugging any more "guests" was asking for trouble – but the fact was that it was built for comfort, not combat. Riflor was too close to use hyperdrives, but not _that_ close to Cerea with the sublights, so there was enough time to scope out the place. For a bunch of suspected Seps, Darman couldn't get over the fact of how utterly trusting they were. They talked, laughed and played some rounds of pazaak against each other, and didn't even seem to care about the stranger in their midst. If it wasn't for the whispers he'd heard from Ruul and his Hutt pal, he would've thought that maybe intel made a mistake about them being Separatists.

Whatever the case, Darman had his orders. Bag Ruul. That was all he needed to know. It occurred to him that if things got messy, he'd probably have to slot the rest of the group, and probably Injira.

He found he didn't care one way or another. The only thing he was concerned about was whether or not he'd have his full kit on him when the time came.

After all, she wasn't Etain.

But Injira _was_ his ticket to moving freely around the yacht. Apparently it was a habit of hers to pick up loose men, which worked for him; it gave him a good cover and so long as he could deal with having to travel with her up and down the _Angler_, he had free reign to update Omega's intel. The new wet count was now at twenty two, but considering it looked like only five of them appeared to know which end was the right end of a blaster, those weren't exactly bad odds. What complicated it was trying to decide how to handle the touchdown on Riflor. Somehow he doubted he'd be allowed to come with Ruul that far. That left him to take out anyone remaining on the Angler, leaving the actual bagging of the Bakuran Senator to Atin, Fi, and Niner.

Commandos were trained to be able to work apart, but there was just something in Darman's gut that didn't like being left behind while his brothers did all the dirty work. Securing the ship wouldn't exactly be a walk in the park, but still. Not being there for his squad in a firefight didn't sit well at all.

At 1937 Triple Zero, Darman found himself forgotten in Injira's quarters, with the ominous promise from the young woman that "she'd be back after she talked with Daddy". Prowling about the small room, Darman found exactly seven items he could possibly use as weapons and thirty more that appeared to be primarily for female use. He supposed the expensive necklaces could be used to strangle someone, but, picking one up and turning it in the light, he doubt it'd hold for very long before it snapped in his hands. Bloody useless. He tossed the necklace onto table with a snort.

What he wouldn't give for his Deece.

At least he could take some satisfaction touching the stranglewire in his pocket. You could do a lot of damage by being a little hands-on, so long as you were quiet about it, but he just couldn't see securing an entire ship armed only with that. He was good, but not _that_ good. If only he could isolate one of the hired guns, then the chances might be more even, but even he couldn't take out twenty-plus wets naked like this. He turned as the door opened behind him and Injira stepped in, sliding a bared leg through and turning to close the door behind her, the seal hissing shut.

"Daddy says we'll be there soon," she said. Her red lips quirk up in a smile that Darman supposed was sultry. He wouldn't know; his human female experience was limited to Etain and she wasn't exactly the seductive sort. "Want to have a little fun before we enter orbit?"

Darman wasn't sure what her idea of fun was. He found out when she came at him, hips swaying, and draped her smooth arms over his shoulder. Darman braced himself for another round of getting strangled, but her legs held out this time. He couldn't help going a little rigid at the unexpected, unfamiliar touch, however – it was just from pure training, he was ready to take her out right now if she tried anything – and Injira pulled back, giving a pretty pout as she gazed at his face.

"What's wrong, Mirsch?"

Bringing up his hands, Darman carefully ran them over the woman's body, checking for any hidden weapons. "Nothing," said Darman

Injira gave a little happy sigh, seeming to mistake his frisking for something else, and leaned into him again. She had to stand on her tiptoes as she tilted her head up and placed her lips on Darman's. He was in the process of feeling around her hips for any concealed weapons when she did this; he froze once again. What? _Fierfek_, what was this? He was the one to pull away this time, staring at Injira.

"What was that?" he asked bluntly.

"It's just a kiss," Injira said.

Darman's face was still blank.

"You know, a _kiss_?" Injira waited for any sign of recognition. She giggled. "You're serious, aren't you? You don't know it is."

"I've never been kissed."

"You've never seen your parents do it?"

"No."

"Adorable," she said under her breath. Another laugh. "Well, then I'll just have to teach you. It's fun."

Darman didn't think it looked fun, if that first one was anything to judge by. In fact it seemed unnecessarily messy and probably a good way to start swapping bacteria around. But if it kept this female talking and giving him more information, than he'd just have to man up and take it like the soldier he was, bacteria or no bacteria. Hopefully whatever diseases she might have, they would be countered by the Kaminoans's cocktail of inoculations. He let her kiss him a second time. Was he supposed to feel something whenever she did that? If so, it wasn't working. He only felt sharply uncomfortable and claustrophobic. Trapped.

Maybe it had to do with the fact that he couldn't see the activity of kissing as having any use at all. There was no point except for the unsanitary exchange of saliva. The sheer uselessness of it pressed in on him; he couldn't help thinking about better ways to get intel from her. If only he had a vibro blade or a blaster…it'd be a lot faster forcing the information from her than letting her "kiss" him and hope that she'd soften up. It was amazing what a blaster muzzle did to get people honest.

Entering a planet's orbit had never seemed to take so long when you were having civilian "fun".


	8. Complications RC 3222 Atin

**Simple Things**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Star Wars or any of the Republic Commando characters.

**Summary**: (Republic Commando, post Hard Contact) The clone commandos contemplate the simple things as Omega Squad prepares for their next mission.

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Simple Things  
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(**RC-3222** **"Atin" )**

Fi's crazy, but you can't tell from the way he pilots the ship.

Atin's taken the co-pilot seat. He glances at his fellow clone. Fi may be a nutter but he sits before the controls like a professional and navigates it smoothly without any showboating, hands settled calmly on the helm and showing no sign of nerves. The ship Omega Squad "liberated" is a small one, a nice cozy GAT-12 Skipray blastboat, and while it's not exactly "Niner-discreet", it's pretty discreet for Fi. It's the best they can do on the fly like this. Looking at the viewscreen, Atin can't see the _Angler _but the Separatist's yacht is still on their sensors and heading straight toward Riflor, oblivious to their new tail. They enter the Riflorii system undetected, navigating through its trinary stars and setting up an approach vector for the planet itself.

Other than the planet and its three suns, there's not a whole lot to see except for black, yawning space.

Getting up, Atin makes his rounds again of the cramped Skipray, passing Niner. They're all in full armor except for Fi, who took off his helmet earlier to concentrate on piloting. Roaming about the ship, Atin checks again on everything that matters, helmet tilting here and there as he makes sure the hull integrity is good, the Plex launcher is right where Niner left it, and that yes, they can fit Darman in full kit and Ruul. Ruul's a big man in his own right, so you have to be sure about these things. A commando can't afford to make these kinds of careless mistakes in the field.

Atin comes back just in time to see Fi snap on his bucket, the helmet sealing with a whining hiss as it calibrates itself again to his rig. Fi is once again faceless, his T-slit glowing just like Atin's. It scares wets senseless to see them coming at them in the dark like that, which is exactly how Atin likes it. It's easier to slot a wet when they're afraid and it doesn't matter if it's honorable or not because a kill's a kill and it's one less blaster to worry about.

Riflor looms up in their viewscreen. The planet's surface is a mass of swirling oranges and browns and reminds Atin entirely too much of Geonosis. There life started for them, _real _life, and suddenly combat was messy, more complicated than anything the Kaminoans or Vau could prepare them for. Atin sits stock-still next to Fi. He can feel the scar on his face, as healed as it's going to get without bacta, suddenly burning. The others think it's a war wound; technically it is, only Atin got it after the battle was long over and the rest of his brothers were dead. These things can't remain secret within a commando squad, even a mongrel one like this, but right now it's not his new brothers' business and he keeps his mouth shut.

"Just like old times," Fi says. He has that clinical clip to his words; no doubt he's thinking the same thing Atin is. "Target's _not _heading toward Advora."

"I love accurate intel," says Atin dryly.

"I'll swing around, keep a good distance from our friends."

They enter the atmosphere at an almost lazy angle, Fi waiting until they hit atmosphere before punching the thrusters. The Skipray's hull rattles but shoots across the sky, keeping above the dense cloud cover as Fi consults the nav computer. Behind him, Atin hears Niner moving about the cabin, going back to collect the Plex launcher and strapping it to his chest again like some kind of bizarre Wookie trophy. The Separatist meeting is supposed to take place in Advora, Riflor's capital, but obviously someone made some last minute changes, making the schematics for Advora useless. It happens. There's nothing for the Omegas to do but work around it. The Skipray jets above a violent storm brewing high above a dormant volcano, ugly yellow lightning crackling over the clouds. They don't land yet, using the electrical storm as cover.

"Looks nasty," Niner speaks up, leaning over Fi's seat. "Three crab droids on the perimeter, one Hailfire tank, and two squads of regular tinnies patrolling the landing site. We need to go in hard and fast. I'll hit the Hailfire from _here_," he accesses a holo map of the volcanic terrain with a few deft clicks, pointing a gloved finger at the glowing holo, "the crab droids are on the other side of the ridge _here_. We need to get past the perimeter before they have a chance to make a break for it. Fi and I go in. Atin will provide initial cover fire."

If Ruul escapes, then it botches everything. They'd have to keep chasing him down and, to make it worse, he'd know they were coming this time. Atin is as much a perfectionist as the next clone: he doesn't intend for Ruul to get a second chance. Nabbing him alive is going to be a lot harder than just shooting the di'kut, but orders are orders. Not only that, but Darman is right in the middle of the Separatist camp without any real weapons or armor. It's not as easy as just doing an orbital bombardment of the place when you have a brother smack in enemy territory.

Darman comms in right on schedule. For some reason, he's out of breath and sounding almost hassled.

"_Darman, reporting in._"

If Niner notices – and he certainly does – he doesn't say anything. "Give me what you got."

"_Ruul and company just left the ship. I'm sealed inside with his stepdaughter and maybe five wets keeping guard in the main hold. The Hutt's still here but I think she's leaving soon to join the Senator. From what I've managed to catch, Ruul will be sweet-talking the Advozse at the conference. Also confirmed Rel Harna is in attendance_. "

Niner's brief silence is deafening. Fi whistles.

"I got dibs," Fi jokes. "Calling it right now."

Atin only shakes his head. The Republic wants Senator Ruul alive, but the Anx Rel Harna is another matter entirely: he's to be terminated on sight, _with extreme prejudice _(a clone's three favorite words). But fighting an Anx? They are big, vicious buggers and can dismantle a clone easily if you get too close. For a race of supposed scholars, they can be pretty violent if they want to be. What exactly this Separatist did to get so high on the GAR's hit list is beyond Atin. All he knows is if you want to kill an Anx, you don't do it up close.

" _– the stepdaughter's looking for me. I better get back_," Darman is saying. He doesn't exactly sigh, "_Sarge, do you want me to secure the ship? I can take Injira Ruul hostage if I need to._"

Niner thinks about it. "Do it. We'll get your kit to you as soon as we can."

Darman signs off.

Atin takes over the controls of the Skipray from Fi, glancing over at his brother, who heads to the back of the ship and retrieves Darman's dissembled armor. It's an extra load to distribute on his chest and back but Fi manages, standing tall even with the added bulk and automatically going over a check of his own armor and Deece. He's ready by the time Atin brings the ship down through the edges of the storm, the blastboat shaking with each crack of thunder, on the far side of the volcano. They have to hoof it on foot the rest of the way. Niner's first out down the landing ramp, crouching in a fluid motion and sweeping out, boots kicking through the ash. Powering down the Skipray, Atin follows Fi outside. It's like something out of a nightmare outside, the sky a dull mix of blood-red and black oozing together, lightning bolts skittering across the forming electrical storm like spiders. Niner splits off, disappearing around fallen boulders, the ash thick in the area and blending in with his gray armor. While this particular volcano is dormant, there are plenty nearby that aren't.

Atin's been to a lot of miserable places but this is pretty up there. At least he's not choking on ash.

And for once their armor doesn't stand out.

"Bet the tourists love this place," says Fi. "I know I do."

Atin keeps low, moving quickly and efficiently. They're about a few kliks away from the Separatist perimeter, enough distance to get into position and wait for Niner to round the volcano's base and get that Hailfire. He hears his breathing in the helmet, the information popping up in his HUD comforting even as it flickers and updates itself at dizzying rates. Everything sounds loud inside his rig but the truth is the two commandos move quietly, the ash muffling their approach. Eventually they reach the perimeter, ducking and flattening themselves against the ground as a crab droid, tall as a man, plods past.

Fi waits for it to pass them, its red optical sensor pointing away, before he splits off, weaving through the camp like a ghost until Atin loses him in the ash raining from the sky. The crab droid ambles on its patrol, heading toward the volcano base. Without having to be told, Atin reaches down and swaps in a sniper attachment for his Deece, carefully lifting it up, still lying on his stomach. It takes a second to sight the droid, another to locate the spot he wants, and not even half a second to depress the trigger. A brief flash. The crab droid suddenly goes down in a heap of metal.

Atin keeps his cover, training his sniper scope on the camp. The ash is thick but he can make out wets assembling, their attendant droids scurrying about and maintaining the shelter canopy they erected to protect them from the elements. He easily spots Rel Harna, the Anx's tall dorsal fin on his head towering above the other Separatists, and while it would be easy to take him out now, Atin waits. Not yet. It's true Fi called dibs on Rel Harna but the fact is it doesn't matter who kills him, only that he's dead by the end of the day, Ruul is in their custody, and Darman is back with the rest of the Omegas. Atin fully intends to take the shot no matter what Fi said.

He occupies himself with picking out different targets. The droids are always expendable but he has to be careful about the wets. Seps like Rel Harna are fair game, but then there're the tricky ones, like Ruul, and the Republic has a funny thing about slotting the tricky ones. For some reason they get squeamish about details like that.

Suddenly there's deafening boom and a flare of light off in the distance.

Niner.

The Hailfire explodes in a brilliant display of shrapnel, a growing ball of flame and debris expanding outward and peppering the area in large chunks. And, just like that, the warning sirens go off as half the droids swivel around toward the smoking remains of their tank, scanning for enemy contact. Atin peers through the scope at the shelter. First Rel Harna. After Rel Harna is taken care of, any of Ruul's guards. Then Ruul himself. The Bakuran Senator probably will try to escape via the _Angler _but Atin hopes to get to him first. He knows if he doesn't, Darman will be stationed aboard to prevent his escape, but Dar's also outnumbered and outgunned.

Missions are never as simple as intel likes them to be. Atin narrows his focus, concentrating on Rel Harna, seeing the Anx's long head turn this way and that as he ducks through an opening made for shorter species, the flames from the destroyed Hailfire casting the Separatist's face in a hellish light. Droids hurry to check on the wreckage, the patrol squads peeling off in different directions as the camp goes into high alert, moving their leaders to cover.

Atin pulls the trigger.


	9. Simple Again RC 8015 Fi

**Simple Things**  
by Famira Damaris

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Star Wars or any of the Republic Commando characters.

**Summary**: (Republic Commando, post Hard Contact) The clone commandos contemplate the simple things as Omega Squad prepares for their next mission.

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Simple Things  
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**(RC-8015 "Fi" )**

The adrenaline rush made everything simple again.

Everything slowed down into split seconds. The blood thundered in his head. Fi was halfway across the temporary compound, ducking between large cargo units and unmanned turrets when Niner decided to say hello to the Seps, GAR style. The Hailfire went up in a blistering explosion, the fireball so hot Fi could feel the heat wave even from here: he ducked instinctively, flattening himself to the ground, Deece clutched to his chest as shrapnel went flying. At these speeds, it could easily take off a limb and, funny, wouldn't you know it, but he happened to need all his arms and legs for his job. Fi popped up as soon as the deadly hail of debris was over…

Just in time to see Atin kill Rel Harna.

Fi didn't even hear the shot. Just a flicker, which could've been fire from the destroyed tank or the incoming blaster bolt, and suddenly there was a smoking hole in Rel Harna's head. The Anx's domed fin briefly lit up as the blaster bolt ricocheted inside his skull, glowing eerily from within for a split second before the Separatist reeled back and went down in a heap, his friends not even realizing what happened at first as they rushed to check on him. It was the distraction Fi needed – he took it. The clone was up on his feet and running, heading toward the parked ships on the crude landing platform. He was disappointed he'd been beaten to the punch, but it was distant, something that took a backseat to concentrating on staying alive and getting to the _Angler_.  
_  
Guess I can take the Skipray as a consolation prize. _

He'd even picked it in his favorite shade of dusty blue.

By now the droids guarding the Separatist ships were sending fire his way. Blaster bolts pinged off his gray commando armor. The tested plating could take a lot of punishment, thanks to R & D, but he didn't want to risk it more than he had to. Fi ducked behind a parked speeder as he was pinned down, leaning out every now and then to return fire. His helmet was alive with the HUD taking in the droid positions, the voices of his brothers filling his ears from the Omega's secure commlink channel:

"_ – Rel Harna is down, repeat, Rel Harna is down – _"

" _– Pinned down by two crabs tinnies and pals –_ "

" _– On it – _"

" _– Need a path cleared to the target – _"

" _– Five wets still with the target. Other three terminated –_"

Fi unconsciously filtered through the chatter. After years of being bred and taught how to operate with his HUD, his own personal command center, it was second nature to keep tabs of his brother's voices and also focus on the battle droids trying to flank him. There wasn't a lot of time. Sure, there weren't too many tinnies in the firefight right now, but once those wets started running for the ships, the rest of the squads would no doubt come knocking. Still crouching, Fi ran, using the speeder as cover, and was on the leader of the droids trying to flank him, lunging for it even as it tried to bring up its own rifle. The vibroblade from his wrist gauntlet ejected with a metallic _snkt _and he plunged it deep into the control panel in its chest. It took less than a second for him to pivot, just like Sergeant Kal taught him, and sight each of the remaining droids with clinical precision. The muzzle of his Deece flared four times in quick succession, casting his T-slit in red light, and then he was sprinting across the landing pad, jumping over the downed tinnies. Fire zinged past his helmet as Fi ducked and weaved, losing himself in the collection of Separatist freighters, starfighters, yachts, and transports.

It occurred to him how it'd be easy to slap some charges on each of them and strand the Seps on Riflor.

But that wasn't Omega's objective.

Fi could feel Darman's armor bouncing against his as he ran through the cluster of ships. If he thought one kit was heavy, two was worse and he knew he'd feel the burn with a vengeance once the adrenaline wore off. He still didn't agree with Dar's _aggressive intel_, but he had to admit it had its uses: without it, they wouldn't have known about Rel Harna's presence on Riflor, a big, unpredicted bonus for General Zey once they got back. Still, Fi felt an unpleasant pit settle in his stomach. Why did he keep getting the feeling like he was missing out on something? It had nothing to do with missing the Rel Harna kill but it wasn't something he could put into words, not yet.

The _Angler _was positioned at the far side of the temporary landing platform, right next to a collection of parked swoops. Fi took note of them even as he scanned the area for any more guards. He had maybe a minute, if not seconds. The landing ramp was down but the door was closed. _Artistic re-entry _was more Dar's area of expertise than his, but all clones knew the basics of coaxing a door open; Fi retrieved a charge, set it, and retreated down the ramp, ducking in its shadow as a droideka darted past (no doubt heading for Niner), and then waited for that tell-tale _thunk_. It was louder than he intended, reverberating on the ground and shaking the yacht, but it was good enough.

Fi charged up the ramp and over the door lying on the floor. Lights flickered in the corridor, buzzing. Patches of it were gone entirely, damaged from his entry, leaving the corridor and its split in total darkness. Fi blinked, switching to his visor's night vision on just in time to see one of the Separatists charge him out of an alcove, blaster fire lighting up his HUD and blinding him even as it pinged off his helmet at point blank range. The clone reacted automatically, leaning to the side to present a smaller target and brutally checked the Sep with an armored shoulder. The human flew against the wall, the blaster knocked out of his hand. Fi's rifle came up and he fired without a second thought, making sure the Separatist was dead for sure before continuing on.

The contact took less than a few seconds.

By now the rest of the Seps on board had to know there was an invader.

Fi moved quickly deeper into the _Angler_, relying on the schematics Darman provided him earlier. During his last transmission, he said he was sealed in the main hold with the rest of the group and while he'd managed to covertly contact Omega Squad, Fi knew he couldn't risk breaking comm silence now. Coming up on the hold's door, Fi paused. Gunning through Separatists and tinnies was one thing. But Darman, his brother, his _mongrel _brother but still his brother, was trapped in there. His breathing was harsh, uneven, echoing in the confines of his helmet. If he cleared the room, he had to be careful. Darman was still a stranger compared to his dead pod brothers, but Fi refused to let anything happen to another brother, not if he had any say in it.

The main hold door's lock was almost embarrassingly flimsy. Fi flattened himself against the wall and tried to slice the control panel, more for kicks than anything else. No go. He'd have to go in the old fashioned way. Pointing his Deece at the panel, he blasted it. The door hissed up. Blaster fire erupted as skittish Separatists shot blindly, the bolts going wild. These weren't trained soldiers, not like the mercenaries Ruul took with him. They were little more than civilians with blasters.

It didn't matter to Fi one way or another.

Waiting for a lull in the crossfire, Fi swept out from his position, tracking who was where. Eliminating the armed Seps should've been his first priority but he broke protocol, glancing around quickly for Darman before he cleared the room. He sighed with relief. His brother was up against the far wall, the stranglewire in his hands and around a human woman's neck – just enough to draw blood, but still enough to let her breathe. The woman's eyes were wide, her mouth open in shock, pressed against Darman's chest and acting as a human shield between him and the rest of the Seps.

Fi efficiently gunned down the rest of the Separatist party. It was easy when they couldn't hit the broadside of a laarty and he could feel the adrenaline starting to ebb as his body realized this wasn't a fight to the death. His helmet protected him against contaminants but he could still catch the sharp, sour smell of ozone and burned clothes and flesh filling the room. Fi didn't go to Darman immediately, making sure the main hold was one hundred percent clear.

"You murdered them!" the woman cried with a strangled sob.

Fi ignored her. Satisfied they were safe for now, he began removing Darman's armor, easing it to the floor. "What's it with you and picking up girls?" he said with a cheeky grin his brother couldn't see but could definitely hear. "They keep throwing themselves at you and soon enough, you'll start tripping over them, _vod_."

"Hey, I didn't do anything."

Fi turned toward the woman, who had to be Injira Ruul. She still wore a low-cut dress he was sure was worth more credits than his Katarn-class armor _and _him combined, a trickle of red blood running down her neck from Dar's strangle-wire. Injira flinched as the glowing T-slit of his helmet fixed on her. Fi could see in her face it bothered her that she couldn't see his eyes or any other human facial features; even his voice sounded mechanical thanks to his bucket. It threw her badly off balance.

"Get suited up," said Fi, deceptively cheerful. "I'll keep on eye on her."

The clone kept his Deece trained on her as his brother collected his armor and moved off to a corner to get suited up again, his relief palpable. Fi got a good close look of Injira. She was a lot different from people like General Etain, all curves and some kind of pigment on her face he guessed had to be makeup. Taking her with them wasn't an option – he'd seen the inside of the Skipray and it was already a tight fit with the additions of Dar and Ruul. And her use as a hostage was over. The Seps outside didn't care who she was. She was a liability and no longer much use as a human shield.

So that really did just leave the option of letting her live or slotting her.

"A-are you going to kill me?" Injira asked. Her voice quavered.

Fi shrugged. He didn't see a reason why he couldn't be honest. "Haven't decided, miss."

"You're a clone, aren't you?" Realization dawned on Injira's face, almost but not quite breaking through her fear. "And Mirsch is one too?"

She probably hadn't met a clone before. Fi watched the struggle on her face: she was having a hard time reconciling her "friend" Mirsch with the faceless commando in hulking armor before her, looking more like one of her Separatist droids than a human being. Fi watched her try and fail. Injira visibly shrank back as Darman joined him, suddenly a twin in gray armor, his own helmet looming out of the flickering gloom and just as alien as his brother. It wasn't just fear for her life in her eyes, but something else he couldn't identify; the fact that he couldn't made him oddly uncomfortable - he liked knowing _how _he felt and _why_ he felt the way he did. Fi clicked his teeth, switching his commlink to a private channel with Darman, the audio icon red on his HUD. To Injira, they had fallen ominously silent.

"So what do you think?" Darman asked.

"You want to drag her _shebs _up and down Riflor, be my guest."

Darman echoed Fi unconsciously. "She's no good as a hostage. I was going to make her pals get me into the cockpit but since you're here, I don't need a shield anymore."

"My hero?"

Darman had that tone in his voice, the one Fi associated with a verbal almost-smile. "Just don't tell Sarge. Now what?" Back to business, he jerked his head slightly at Injira.

"If you don't want to, I can do it."

"It's not that - "

" - But if we kill her, Ruul might be less cooperative," Fi finished. "Everyone's so _picky _these days. Okay, so we _don't _take her with us and we _don't _slot her. Sounds like a great plan we got going here."

"I don't like it any more than you do, but the GAR wants Ruul to talk. He's soft. But I don't think he'll be in a talkative mood if his favorite stepdaughter ends up fried, especially if it's got _clone job_ written all over it."

Fi couldn't argue there. "How about we just toss her in the fresher unit and seal her in? Everyone's happy."

"Injira Ruul, you'll need to come with us," Darman said, his voice once again audible in the main hold. Injira jumped. Fi watched her glance from Darman to him, unsure of who was who. Darman manhandled Injira, not being rough but not being too gentle either as he pushed her to the front, his Deece not aimed but resting comfortably in his gloved hands in case she tried anything. Fi brought up the rear. His mission right now was complete: Darman was back in action, alive, armed, and part of the squad. Things should be simple again once they were off the yacht, Fi thought, and blasting off this planet. The squad would be back together and on another mission, no doubt; last he heard, there was talk of some unlucky squad getting sent to Fest, which would be ten kinds of fun right there.

So why did he keep thinking about the way Injira Ruul looked at them?


End file.
